by Matthew Ward
"Edric...?" Calda whispered.
"We've no choice. We'll go straight through to the gate, and hope no one challenges us."
"No reason why they should, is there? Not with him as our authority." She prodded Scarface towards the gate.
Three steps later, Jamar slipped on a patch of ice, and fell heavily onto his backside. By itself, it was harmless mischance. Though it drew the attention of several cultists, it did so only for them to mock Jamar's misfortune. Unfortunately, with one of his guards down, Scarface took the opportunity to make a break for it.
"They're intruders!" He shoved Calda aside, and darted out of reach. "On your feet! Kill them! Kill them in the name of the Burning Lord!"
Jamar swore and staggered upright. He wasted no time on self-recrimination, but drew his sword and headed deeper into the courtyard. Like it or not, we were committed. We certainly couldn't go back into the caverns. Calda growled and headed after Scarface.
I grabbed her arm. "Let him go. We don't have time."
Calda glared at me for a moment. Then she shrugged off my hand and ran after Jamar.
The crumbling gatehouse was our most obvious escape route, and the cultists knew it. A dozen stood waiting, weapons drawn. Jamar peeled off to the left, and took the rampart stairway two crumbling steps at a time. One cultist met him halfway, sword drawn. Jamar battered the weapon aside, ran the fellow through and pitched his bloody corpse into the courtyard.
Others moved to intercept Jamar from either end of the ramparts. The big man hacked one down, parried another, then Calda was there, or almost. Not yet at the top of the stair, she yanked hard on a cultist's ankle. Between that, the icy ramparts and his own forward motion, the cultist stood no chance. He slid sideways, his head cracking against a crenulation. Another cultist checked his own advance just enough to see where the attack had come from. He screamed in agony as the point of Calda's sword took him in the groin.
I'd been left to bring up the rear, and wasn't much enjoying myself. Scarface bellowed orders, pulling guards away from the gate and loosing them to the pursuit. I stumbled backwards up the stairs, blade darting to keep my pursuers at bay.
I heard a sharp twang from the courtyard, and an even sharper clack as an arrow struck the wall a little above my shoulder. The archer had rushed his shot. I was certain the next would be more accurate.
Suddenly, my immediate opponent was swept away in a tangle of arms and legs, as were the comrades immediately behind her on the stairs. Jamar and Calda had cleared the battlements, and had pitched a corpse onto my attackers. Turning on my heel, I sprinted up the last few steps onto the walls, arrows clattering all around me.
"What now?" I asked breathlessly.
"Over the wall!" snapped Calda.
"We'll break our legs."
"Perhaps not," said Jamar. "The snow's heavily drifted. I don't rate our chances up here."
Calda hoisted herself over the crenelations and fell backward into the snow. I no longer had time for doubt. Sheathing my sword, I lowered myself as far down the outside face of the wall as my straining fingers would allow, and let go.
The impact jarred every bone in my body. I lay there for a moment, taking inventory of my pained parts and pieces, then lurched upright as Calda's helping hand found mine. A moment later, there was a spray of snow as Jamar dropped into the drift a little to my left.
"See?" he said. "Perfectly safe."
There was no time to argue. Away to my right, the fort's gate screeched open.
Calda pointed downhill. "To the tree line. That'll help with the bows."
We ran downhill, or at least as close to a run as the deep-drifted snow allowed. I heard angry jeers from cultists on the battlements, and the far more worrying noise of pursuers crunching their way through the snow behind us. I threw a look over my shoulder. Scarface led the pursuit, a score of his fellows close behind. Arrows whistled through the air and thudded into the snow.
Calda cried out and collapsed. One arrow had buried itself in her back, another in her left calf. Blood welled up from the wounds, staining her borrowed robes a dark and ominous red. She tried to stand, then swore and collapsed as her injured leg gave out. Jamar caught her before she hit the ground.
"I don' need... help." Calda's voice was weak and thready.
Jamar ignored her. Taking each arrow shaft in turn, he snapped it off a few inches away from the wound. He knew, as I did, that trying to remove the whole thing would only increase our troubles. Then he hoisted Calda onto his shoulders, and we set off again.
The whole thing had taken no more than a handful of seconds, but they were moments we could ill-afford to lose. Another arrow raked my cheek and whipped past me into the thickening blizzard, leaving a thin rivulet of blood in its wake.
I barely felt the wound. My mind was racing with the problem at hand. With Calda injured, we'd no chance of outrunning our pursuers. Even Jamar couldn't keep up this pace indefinitely with her as a burden. Then there was the matter of Calda's injuries. If the bleeding could be staunched, the leg wound was unlikely to prove fatal, but I worried at what harm the other arrow might have done. Irritating as she sometimes was, I couldn't bear to lose Calda.
We crashed into the forest, heedless of the thorns and ice-encrusted branches whipping at our faces. At least now we'd have a measure of protection from the archers. I even entertained a hope that we'd lose our pursuers in the undergrowth. Then I turned, and saw how close behind us Scarface and his band were, and I knew the folly of that hope. Our lead was slipping away.
Jamar must have felt the same despair, but he didn't give up. Instead, he forged on through the briars and brambles, weaving between the trees with the light-footedness of a man unburdened. Tiredness, accelerated by the cold and the distant proximity of my last meal, gnawed at my bones. Even if Jamar could keep to his pace, I knew I couldn't. That left us precisely one option.
I stopped running as we entered a clearing of birch trees. Jamar came to a standstill a short distance away. Calda moaned incomprehensibly, already lost in the twilight between unconsciousness and the waking world.
"Keep going," I urged Jamar. "Get her out of here."
His heavy brow twitched into a frown. "I'm not leaving you."
"Yes you are. They're going to catch us anyway. Calda needs help, and fast. She'll not get it if we're recaptured. They'll just kill her, and you."
"They'll kill you too."
I shook my head. "They won't. Not if I tell them who I am. They'll ransom me." I grimaced. "Probably. I can at least make sure they know what the Emperor will pay for my return."
Jamar didn't move. Old habits ran deep, but right now they were costing us all precious time.
"Havildar," I said, purposefully addressing Jamar by his rank. "Get the warleader to safety. That's an order. Then you're to come back here with as many men as you can find, and slaughter this nest of cutthroats. Is that understood?"
Jamar regarded me for a long moment. I saw the twin drives of loyalty and duty fighting for dominance in his eyes. Then he turned and, without a word, carried Calda from the grove.
I let out a sigh of relief – I hadn't been at all sure Jamar would obey – and faced my pursuers. I unbuckled my sword and threw it to the ground, trying to convince myself that this was for the best. Despite what I'd told Jamar, I wasn't hopeful Scarface would stay his hand long enough for me to explain why I was more valuable alive than dead – and that assumed he was interested in money at all. Even if he was, 'alive' was a long way from 'uninjured'. With so many of their comrades slain at my hands, the best I could look forward to was a truly miserable captivity. Constans would have approved. He'd understood the concept of sacrifice for one's friends.
I'd have liked to see Arianwyn again though, if only for a moment.
"You wear a grim expression for such beautiful surroundings."
The young woman entered the clearing a little way to my right. She brushed aside a skeletal branch, her movements crisp and precise. She
had deathly white skin, and no wonder. Her tunic and trousers were in no way thick enough to thwart the chills of a Tressian winter. True, she wore a black mantle and cloak of feathers as dark as the rest of her attire, but she had no hood, her tightly plaited white hair falling away past her shoulders, and the cloak was pushed back over her shoulders rather than gathered close.
Drawing closer, the woman met my eyes. She looked confused for a moment, as if she had been expecting someone else, but then her features formed a polite smile. "Why were you running?"
Just how long had she been waiting there? "I'm trying to escape a coven of murderers. If you've any sense, you'll leave."
The woman shook her head. "No. No, I do not think so."
I wasn't entirely sure with which part of my statement she'd disagreed. "You can't stay here. They'll kill you."
The woman cocked her head to one side as she considered. "Yet you remain. Would it really be any less safe for me?"
"I'm staying to save the lives of my friends. I'm not certain it'll work."
"Have you done anything to wrong your pursuers?"
The conversation struck me as decidedly odd, but then there was more than a little odd about the woman as well. Why hadn't I heard her approach? "Only what I had to, and then only what vengeance demanded."
She laughed merrily. The joyful sound was quite out of place in that frozen wood. "Retribution is not my concern. I speak for truth, and I do not believe you to be false."
I narrowed my eyes. "Is that good?"
"Oh yes. It means I am permitted to help you."
"How? You're not even armed."
The woman smiled. "Not everything is as it seems, mortal."
That last word made my blood run cold. Unless the woman before me was mad – which was, of course, a distinct possibility – then she was one of the Great Powers of the world, or at least a servant of such. The legends of my people were thick with tales of such beings. Some we worshipped as gods, others we sought fervently to avoid. Which was she?
Scarface entered the clearing, cultists spreading out around him. "Well, well, well," he said, with obvious relish. "It seems that we've caught ourselves an extra prize into the bargain." He raised his voice. "Comely thing, isn't she lads?" He laughed raucously at his own jest, and his fellows joined in.
The woman seemed not to notice, but walked calmly to my side. "This man is under my protection." Her voice cut through the cold air as cleanly as a chiming bell. "You are not all wicked. Some are simply foolish, or misguided. Leave now, before your leader's sins consume you also."
This provoked another guffaw of laughter from Scarface. "Thank you, love. That's very generous. What happens if I choose not to leave?"
"My offer was not for you. Your spirit is heavy with wickedness. Whatever else befalls, you shall find justice."
Scarface's laughter died in his throat. "Oh really, love? As it happens I don't appreciate being mocked. I'm no longer in the mood for prisoners." He swept a hand forward. "Kill them. Kill them both. Slowly."
So much for offering myself up for ransom. The cultists closed warily, clearly unconvinced this wasn't part of some trap. The strange woman shook her head, her expression oddly sorrowful. "May I borrow your sword?"
She spoke without a hint of concern. I'd been wrong. She wasn't a Great Power, or a herald thereof. She was just a madwoman of the forest. Not the companion I'd have chosen to die alongside, all things considered. "Be my guest."
I wasn't paying attention. I was watching the nearest cultist. My sword was several paces away – much too far for me to grab before the cultists reached me. But if I overpowered one of them and seized his weapon...
"My thanks."
She darted forward, the speed of the motion taking me completely by surprise. The cultists too, it seemed, for she had a hand on my sword before any of them reacted. Only then did a bowstring sing, an arrow flying true for her heart.
"Look out!"
I needn't have bothered with the warning. An instant before the arrow struck, the sides of the woman's cloak whipped about, overlapping to shield her. The arrow caromed off into the trees, and the folds of the cloak snapped back again – except now I saw that what I'd taken for a cloak was actually a pair of massive, black-feathered wings.
I allowed myself a grim smile. She was indeed a herald of a Great Power after all.
"She's a serathi," bellowed Scarface. "Kill her!"
There was a note of desperation in his voice, and no wonder. Legends spoke of the serathi as messengers of Astarra, Goddess of Light. Scarface and his minions would be lucky indeed to bring her down. It would occur to me later that it was remarkable how quickly and unsurprisedly he recognised my saviour, but then, as a man apparently dedicated to waking what seemed to be some kind of slumbering fire giant, he was probably inclined to interpret legends as truth. For the moment, however, such analysis was far from my thoughts. I was too busy staring, awestruck, as the serathi went about her work.
The archer died first. The serathi swept her wings back and half-leapt, half-soared towards him, closing the distance only a heartbeat slower than his ill-fated arrow. She swept my sword free of its scabbard, and buried the blade in the man's chest before he'd even realised his danger.
Others closed in as she pulled the sword free of the archer's corpse. Blood sprayed across the snow as the sword's tip took three throats in a single spinning slash. Those spared by the blade fared little better, as her wings knocked them sprawling. One sat moaning on the ground, cradling a broken arm. Another didn't move at all, but lay lifeless in the clearing's bloodied snow, a tangle of shattered limbs. He'd died before he hit the ground.
Deciding I'd sat too long out of this fight, I threw myself at the nearest cultist.
I was cold, tired, angry and worried about Calda, and I struck her with all those frustrations and more. I was inside the reach of her sword before she ever truly noticed I was on the move. My shoulder hit her squarely in the chest, slamming her backwards into a tree trunk. Winded, she gasped for breath, then cried out in pain as I slammed my forehead into the bridge of her nose. Blood gushed, and she collapsed in the snow.
Alerted by a scream, I spun around in time to see the serathi slaughter another cultist. Then her wings swept back, and carried her towards a new victim. My sword was certainly seeing plenty of use, but I needed a weapon myself.
Stooping, I tried to take the sword from my unconscious opponent, only to discover that she wasn't quite so unconscious after all. Three kicks to the chest and head, and she finally relinquished her grip. Grabbing the weapon, I turned back to the fight...
...and found the point of Scarface's sword at my throat.
"Drop it," he ordered. "Drop it, or I'll kill you now."
It seemed that I'd little choice. I reluctantly let my stolen blade fall.
"Weakling." Scarface spat, then raised his voice. "I'll kill him!"
The serathi didn't even look at him. She had another of the cultists – the last of the cultists, it seemed – in a one-handed grip about the throat. Her victim was not a small man, but she had him at arm's length, his feet kicking madly above the snow. Her arms and face were marred by streaks and speckles of blood, the colours a livid contrast to her alabaster skin.
"I mean it," Scarface shouted again. "I'll kill him."
I smiled. His voice carried more fear than threat. "I don't think she's listening."
"Shut up!" he bit out. "I'll cut you some. That'll get her attention."
The serathi at last turned her head. She otherwise didn't move a muscle. The cultist in her grip continued his fight for freedom, but with no more success than before.
"I said I'll kill him." Scarface had clearly decided that repetition would serve him well.
The serathi shifted her hand slightly. There was a sharp crack, and the cultist in her grasp went still. She let the lifeless body fall, then took a slow, deliberate pace towards us. "No, I don't believe you will,"
Initially, I didn't care
for the manner in which she gambled with my life, but that soon fell away as I realised she was right, Scarface wasn't going to kill me. I don't know how I knew. Maybe it was that if I was dead he'd lose whatever bargaining power he thought he had. Maybe it was because he'd already hesitated too long.
The serathi took three more paces, plucked the sword from Scarface's unresisting fingers and dropped it into the snow. "You see? I told you that you were not going to kill him. Sleep now."
With that, she cuffed Scarface hard about the head. He collapsed, senseless, to the ground.
I confess I didn't know what to say. The agents of the Great Powers I'd previously encountered had been malevolent, and seldom a shade short of horrific. To encounter one so altruistic was an oddity, however welcome. The serathi appeared to sense my confusion, and stared at me with amusement.
"Thank you," I said eventually.
She gave a slight bow of her head. "You are welcome."
"Is he dead?"
"No. I said he will answer to justice, and he shall."
"You'll hand him over to the Tressians?" I asked, puzzled that she'd be troubled with such mundanities.
She laughed merrily. "No, of course not, I shall take him with me. He will answer to the Courts of Heaven. His mind is such a warren of wickedness, and he deserves no less." She spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world, which I suppose to her it was. She cleaned my sword on Scarface's robes, then handed the weapon back to me. "Here. It is a good sword."
"It is." I took the weapon from her and walked the few paces required to retrieve my scabbard. When I turned back, the serathi had Scarface lolling in her arms, and her wings were outspread. Wherever she was returning, it appeared she intended to leave immediately.
"Wait! I need your help." I'd no idea whether what I was about to do was wise, but clung to the idea that it might give Calda a better chance of survival.
The serathi regarded me with amusement. "You are a forthright mortal. You have already had my aid once this day, and you call for it a second time?"
Her haughty tone was clearly intended to cow me, but I'd more important things on my mind. "Yes. But not for myself. I've two friends nearby, one of whom is badly injured. Will you not help her? Or does the aid of the serathi extend only to matters of death, and not to matters of life?"